Read Online A Broken Paradise (The Windows of Heaven Book 3) by K.G. Powderly Jr. - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: K.G. Powderly Jr.
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Surely, the Great War itself was not so tumultuous. He grimaced at the sour reflux eruption halfway up his esophagus.
Fortunately, for Tarbet, Lumekkor had broken Aztlan’s Polar Fleet. The threat of invasion to Thulae had halted Psydonu’s other fleet at the Straits of Kush and brought the titans of both sides to the negotiating table.
Huge blond At’Lahazh, son of Psydonu, pounded the round bar stand at the center of the salon with his six-fingered hand and snarled something terse at the exquisitely sculpted Uggu of Lumekkor.
W olf-headed Avarnon-Set and dark, glassy-eyed Psydonu of Aztlan seemed to exchange pleasantries off to one side .
How had Psydonu kept his Setiim ancestry secret for so long? Tarbet wondered. He marveled at the perfection of the western titan’s rich red-earth skin, so like his own. Yet there was something disturbing about the giant’s eyes—they seemed a bit too far apart, somehow dull, and wild in some twisted dichotomy to his jolly demeanor. It both elated and distressed Tarbet to think that this giant and he were distant cousins.
“Look at them,” said a tired voice standing next to him.
Tarbet turned to see Tubaal-qayin V ‘Dumuzi,’ the Shepherd-Emperor of Lumekkor, at his elbow. The potentate of nearly a fifth of the world seemed more thin and sickly than Tarbet had remembered him. Never a large man, Tubaal-qayin could ill afford the weight loss.
Tarbet bowed. “You look well, Majesty.”
“No, I don’t. And they all know it.” The Dumuzi grunted, nodding toward the titans.
“Lord?”
“They act like a bunch of carrion wurms, tearing up rotting chunks of the world for themselves to devour later on, at their leisure.”
The Shepherd’s words startled Tarbet. He had never known the man to be a pessimist. Then he noticed how Tubaal-qayin Dumuzi was, like himself, shunted to the sidelines of the proceedings.
It struck him then that the only other naturally-born human in the salon was Pandura, the Priestess of Northern Aztlan. She , too, hung in the background, as if listening and watching like some insect queen waiting for the right season to rebuild her hive. Tarbet allowed his mind to wander back to the wild trysts he’d had with her back at Ayar Adi’in, before Aztlan had broken away from Lumekkor, and the two Temples had divided from each other. I could never resist her. Why is she here, and not her Lumekkorim counterparts from Temples Ardis and Ayar Adi’In?
“They stand like an army of bronz ed pillars around that table,” Dumuzi mused aloud, as he gestured back at the titans. “How and when did they seize the machinery of so much power so completely?”
“What do you mean, Lord?”
“You might as well stop calling me that, Tarbet. I’m as much a vassal to them now as you ever were to me—if not in title, then in practice. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“Surely you jest,” Tarbet said diplomatically, while deep down in the discreet confines of his inner thoughts , he agreed with him. Why haven’t I noticed it before?
The Emperor grinned like a drying corpse. “Yes, of course I do.”
The only way Tarbet could have felt more awkward would have been at the table with the titans. What am I doing here? Why was I even asked? I’m not the Archon yet, and my father is the youngest to hold the Chair since Atum-Ra, when the world was young! Rakhau could still rule Seti for another two hundred and fifty years or more.
“You don’t know why you’re here, do you?” Tubaal-qayin Dumuzi stated more than asked, as if he had just read Tarbet’s thoughts. Even the armistice discussions lulled a bit, as if the titans themselves wanted to hear Tarbet’s response. Something cold in the very air hung over the salon. The mournful wail of a distant sea dragon seeped in on the breeze from outside.
Tarbet stiffened. “As next in line for the Archonate of Sa-utar, I’m a direct descendant of Seti the Great—more than Psydonu over there.”
“True. But why
Fortunately, for Tarbet, Lumekkor had broken Aztlan’s Polar Fleet. The threat of invasion to Thulae had halted Psydonu’s other fleet at the Straits of Kush and brought the titans of both sides to the negotiating table.
Huge blond At’Lahazh, son of Psydonu, pounded the round bar stand at the center of the salon with his six-fingered hand and snarled something terse at the exquisitely sculpted Uggu of Lumekkor.
W olf-headed Avarnon-Set and dark, glassy-eyed Psydonu of Aztlan seemed to exchange pleasantries off to one side .
How had Psydonu kept his Setiim ancestry secret for so long? Tarbet wondered. He marveled at the perfection of the western titan’s rich red-earth skin, so like his own. Yet there was something disturbing about the giant’s eyes—they seemed a bit too far apart, somehow dull, and wild in some twisted dichotomy to his jolly demeanor. It both elated and distressed Tarbet to think that this giant and he were distant cousins.
“Look at them,” said a tired voice standing next to him.
Tarbet turned to see Tubaal-qayin V ‘Dumuzi,’ the Shepherd-Emperor of Lumekkor, at his elbow. The potentate of nearly a fifth of the world seemed more thin and sickly than Tarbet had remembered him. Never a large man, Tubaal-qayin could ill afford the weight loss.
Tarbet bowed. “You look well, Majesty.”
“No, I don’t. And they all know it.” The Dumuzi grunted, nodding toward the titans.
“Lord?”
“They act like a bunch of carrion wurms, tearing up rotting chunks of the world for themselves to devour later on, at their leisure.”
The Shepherd’s words startled Tarbet. He had never known the man to be a pessimist. Then he noticed how Tubaal-qayin Dumuzi was, like himself, shunted to the sidelines of the proceedings.
It struck him then that the only other naturally-born human in the salon was Pandura, the Priestess of Northern Aztlan. She , too, hung in the background, as if listening and watching like some insect queen waiting for the right season to rebuild her hive. Tarbet allowed his mind to wander back to the wild trysts he’d had with her back at Ayar Adi’in, before Aztlan had broken away from Lumekkor, and the two Temples had divided from each other. I could never resist her. Why is she here, and not her Lumekkorim counterparts from Temples Ardis and Ayar Adi’In?
“They stand like an army of bronz ed pillars around that table,” Dumuzi mused aloud, as he gestured back at the titans. “How and when did they seize the machinery of so much power so completely?”
“What do you mean, Lord?”
“You might as well stop calling me that, Tarbet. I’m as much a vassal to them now as you ever were to me—if not in title, then in practice. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“Surely you jest,” Tarbet said diplomatically, while deep down in the discreet confines of his inner thoughts , he agreed with him. Why haven’t I noticed it before?
The Emperor grinned like a drying corpse. “Yes, of course I do.”
The only way Tarbet could have felt more awkward would have been at the table with the titans. What am I doing here? Why was I even asked? I’m not the Archon yet, and my father is the youngest to hold the Chair since Atum-Ra, when the world was young! Rakhau could still rule Seti for another two hundred and fifty years or more.
“You don’t know why you’re here, do you?” Tubaal-qayin Dumuzi stated more than asked, as if he had just read Tarbet’s thoughts. Even the armistice discussions lulled a bit, as if the titans themselves wanted to hear Tarbet’s response. Something cold in the very air hung over the salon. The mournful wail of a distant sea dragon seeped in on the breeze from outside.
Tarbet stiffened. “As next in line for the Archonate of Sa-utar, I’m a direct descendant of Seti the Great—more than Psydonu over there.”
“True. But why
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